Fire of the Heart
by fiction of fans
Summary: Eighteen year old Harry Rogue meets an alluring, mysterious, quiet fire-fighter called Edward as a vicious gang of arsonists plague the city. While the flames grow more dominant, so does the flame within Harry's heart for Edward, but in the end could everything go up in smoke? Rated M for future slash.


**Chapter One-Acquaintance**

The flames licked the old farmhouse apart as billows of smoke defiantly poured from the cracked windows. Creaking and crackling, snapping and straining were the pleas for help from the abandoned building. The fire became more intense with grand amounts of smoke pluming into the clear sky. As Harry Rogue watched on with fascinated eyes, he feared no one would save the old farmhouse. It groaned more and more, every part of it submerged in a blaze. Help seemed to be all but around until the relieving yelp of the fire engine could be heard over the roar of the beast with which they arrived for to drown.

Five men in protective uniform jumped from the vast vehicle and grasped the rubber hose. Harry and his co-workers at the diner from across the road gazed, enchanted by the spectacle before them. The rescuers aimed the hose at the flames, which now laughed at their attempt to douse it, and switch it on.

Majestic water shot out from it in a ceaseless white tube and fought the demon head on, clashing its sharp, fiery blades with icy, unstoppable force. The destructive dragon faltered briefly before regaining its strength, boiling the water into steam. The firemen, however, expected this tactic and changed the dial on the hose to full blast, striking the fire into its heart. But the inferno wasn't going to give up that easily, and directed its power to the back of the whining farmhouse, where the hose could not reach. It received a damp shock when it saw there was a second fire truck awaiting it with gallons of water to dispense.

Within minutes, the blaze was vanquished, the last traces of smoke sailing into space.

Harry and his colleagues cheered on the fire-fighters as they killed of the remaining embers with brief spurts from the hose.

The farmhouse was indeed going to be demolished; it was no more than a charred ruin, but it was a crippling blow to the arsonist gang who sealed its fate. The arsons would be back, yet the clues they leave behind push them one step closer to imprisonment.

Harry Rogue said to his boss, turning from the scene, "Right, Alex, it's the end of my shift now. See you tomorrow."

His boss gave him a stern look, "Don't be late again."

"I shan't," Harry responded, and grabbed his coat and bag. Once he reached the door he found that the fire fighters were heading over to the diner. They had to inch past each other awkwardly, courteous smiles in the process. The final one Harry had to conquer seemed mysterious, almost shy; his face had smears of ash upon it, his honey-coloured eyes were alert and on guard. When they landed on Harry, they softened. The eighteen year old waiter grinned at the curious man and left, daring not to turn back; he felt a slight sense of sanguinity as he pondered over the acquaintance; the way their clothes rustled against each other when they had to squeeze through the narrow doorway constantly replayed itself on his way home.

The air was perfumed with that of soft smoke and fragrant flowers; it was summertime, Harry's second favourite season; his first was winter. About summer, he adored the warmth, the pretty plants, the cheerful laughter of the wind and the dramatic sunsets left behind on a hot day. Luckily for the young waiter, there was a sunset now; its supreme tint burned itself upon the face of the eastern mountain of Nosra. The isolated peak was dyed the colours of red, orange and yellow, looking like it was embraced with lava.

Harry unlocked the door to his small, two-bedroom flat near the city centre. The flat was always messy; pots and pans were consistently courting with the sink and the carpet always needed hovering. Harry blamed this on his roommate, James, who didn't have a job; he always told him to clean up when he was at work, but did he? No.

The teenager washed up while whistling a Mozart concerto, and scrubbed the kitchen counters. There, the flat looked a little bit more hygienic, though it was a far-cry to what he wished it resembled.

Harry cooked up some chicken soup and started eating it on the settee, watching the news with tired eyes.

_More arson attacks plague the city; just today the gang set fire to the old farmhouse. No one was hurt in the process, but the ancient building is completely destroyed. Check out this shocking footage._

_Now, as we all know, the arsons haven't been aiming for any public buildings, yet we believe soon they may so keep on guard and look your doors. _

Harry sighed at this dreadful world he lived in; he felt so unsafe sleeping at night sometimes.

"Oi, Haz, let us in!" A gruff voice bellowed from the front door. Harry knew who it was: James. 'Haz' was his cute nickname for him.

He opened the door and was greeted with the intoxicated face of his roommate, "Been drinking again?"

"Just a few."

"For God's sake, James," Harry helped him into the house, slumping his arm over his shoulder. "Come on, I'll put you to bed."

"Tar, Haz."

Harry gently placed him into his bed and tucked him, "Right, get some sleep."

"You know what, if you weren't gay, I'd definitely marry you," James replied quietly, before plunging into sleep.

The waiter smiled and left for his own bed.

The next thing he knows, he's rudely awoken by the nagging sound of his alarm clock. He slaps it firmly with his hand, ceasing its cries. Harry mutters with fatigue as he takes a shower, gets dressed and heads of to work. He looks a mess; his short, brown hair is ruffled, his blue eyes have purple bags clinging under them and his skin would make snow envious of its palette.

"Morning, Alex," He acknowledges his boss groggily. It's eight in the morning; he has not the time to be mannerly.

An hour later, after washing dishes and preparing the plates, the diner starts slowly filling up with people in need of a good coffee or cup of tea. One of those people, to his strange pleasure, was the fireman he budged past at the doorway yesterday. It must be his day off, Harry thought; he's not wearing his uniform. He was clad in a white polo shirt without the sleeves and black jeans. His hair is a light brown and his countenance is clasped in concentration as he fills in the blanks of a crossword puzzle.

"Hello, what can I get you?" Harry asked politely, flashing him a grin.

The man looked up from the paper, his face illuminated. "In all honesty, I need nothing; I'm going to meet a friend now."

Harry hid his disappointment well, "Oh, okay. Have a wonderful day."

"I shall," He raised a dense eyebrow and placed the bill gently on the counter. It contained a five pound note, which wasn't the right amount.

"Your bill doesn't come to five pounds if you've just had a tea," Harry spoke delicately.

Mischievously, he winked at Harry and said with perfect articulation, "I know; pretend it's a kind of tip."

Then he departed the diner, his gait both provocative and dignified.

Harry watched after him with fascination until he was out of sight, and then glanced down at the 'bill'. His quiet gasp was brought on for decent reasons; it wasn't a five pound note that the man had placed, it was piece of paper. It was underneath the paper that lay the correct sum.

He unfolded the paper excitedly and found it to be a note, written with a beautiful script: _What was the volcano called the buried Pompeii, again? I can't seem to remember. I'm Edward, by the way._

Harry's lips curved upwards effulgently, his eyes glowed like twinkling stars and his chest erupted into a heavenly bubble, and he didn't know why.

He continued his shift with joy, keeping the well-wrote note in his pocket.

Meanwhile, outside, two of Harry's co-workers outside are having a cigarette, conversing on the subject splashed on the front cover of the city's exclusive newspaper.

"Wasn't it a shock? Then again, I knew someone would die up there eventually. How'd he die again?" A bleach-blonde woman inquired to her friend, inhaling the nicotine greedily.

"Thirst; it's too bloody dry up there."

"Aye, it is; old Nosra Mountain could give birth to a flame using an ice cube."

**I hope you like this; tell me your thoughts, if you want. I'll publish chapter two soon! **


End file.
